


Jaquemart XII - In A Gallery of Shadows (iv.  eclipse)

by alanharnum



Series: Jaquemart [17]
Category: Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 18:51:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13173042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alanharnum/pseuds/alanharnum





	Jaquemart XII - In A Gallery of Shadows (iv.  eclipse)

JAQUEMART  
by  
Alan Harnum

Utena and its characters belongs to Be-PaPas, Chiho Saito,   
Shogakukan, Shokaku Iinkai and TV Tokyo.

This copy of the story is from my Archive of Our Own page at http://archiveofourown.org/users/alanharnum/pseuds/alanharnum.

 

XII. In a Gallery of Shadows

iv. eclipse

* * *

"I'd begin with once upon a time, but it wasn't actually very  
long ago--only seven years--and I've always thought that was a  
stupid way to begin a story anyway. Upon _what_ time, exactly?  
If at all possible, one should be specific.

"Anyway, my brother and I lived in Kagoshima, with our  
parents. Our family, on both sides, had always been wealthy.   
My father was a lawyer, a rich and respected man; his brother   
(my aunt's husband) was a doctor. We had the happy life that  
children free of want, or even aware of the existence of want,  
generally have. My mother served as my father's legal secretary;  
thus, the two of them would often take business trips together,   
leaving us behind. Those were the times we spent in the care of   
our uncle and aunt, and I still remember them fondly.

"My aunt is a kind and remarkable woman. I noticed you  
speaking with her earlier in the evening. Our parents died  
shortly after her husband did, and--but I am getting ahead of  
myself.

"The circumstances of their deaths are important for you to  
understand. My mother was, among other things, a very heavy  
smoker. I have more memories of her with a cigarette in her hand  
then I do without. She was also a voracious reader, and would  
often stay up long after my father, smoking in bed and reading.  
One night, she must have been especially weary, and fallen   
asleep without extinguishing it.

"I woke up to the smell of smoke. Running out into the  
hallway, I saw that most of the upper floor of our house was   
ablaze. My brother, whose room was next to mine, was already out  
in the hallway. He was calling for our parents, but the way to  
their room was blocked by the flames, as were the stairs.

"Our rooms were on the third floor of the house, but I saw  
no other way to escape except out the window. My brother was  
hysterical, however, insisting that we had to try and save our  
parents. I could see that was futile, but he would not be   
convinced.

"We were ten years old. What were we supposed to do to help  
them? But I would not leave without my brother. The flames grew   
higher around us; it was difficult to breathe, even to see,   
because of the smoke.

"Then the prince appeared. I am uncertain of just why I  
knew she was a prince. I had never heard of a girl being a  
prince before then. She walked out of the smoke and the flame,  
and they did not touch her. 

"'Take my hand, little one,' she said. And she took my   
hand, and I took my brother's hand; he had suddenly become very  
calm. 'Follow me through the fire, and it shall burn you not.'

"We ran down the stairs, my hand in hers, his hand in mine.  
We passed through the fire, and it did not burn us. I remember  
that the prince's hand was gentle and soft, but very strong; she  
smelled of roses, and wore white.

"That prince saved our lives.

"And it was you.

"You are my prince.

"I came to this school to meet you."

Utena stood still for a moment, hands in the pockets of her  
jacket, absorbing the last of the information, letting each part  
of the story moil and mingle with each other part. The smoke and  
the fire? Did memories, even the faintest ones, stir at this  
story? No; no they did not.

Akami reached out, perhaps to lay a hand on her shoulder.  
"Tenjou Utena--" 

Her own violence surprised her. She seized Akami by the  
shoulders and pinned her back against the trunk of a nearby   
tree. "He put you up to this, didn't he?" she snarled; she  
tightened her grip, barely hearing the dark-haired girl's soft  
cry of pain and surprise. "Didn't he? Well, I'm not fooled!   
I'm _not_!"

"Please--" Akami's eyes were wide, almost frightened.  
Good, Utena thought viciously; this is for Nanami. 

"How dumb do you two think I am?" she snapped. "I'm   
smarter now; wiser now. I'm not a fool any more!"

"I'm not..."

"Shut up!" She wrenched Akami forward, then slammed her back  
against the tree again, fingers digging hard into her shoulders.  
"I'm not your prince! I never was! I never-- 

"...I was never anyone's prince." Strength fled her, and   
she sagged; suddenly, her hold on Akami was the only thing   
keeping her upright. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. If   
it was true, then... what? What had happened? No; it was   
impossible. She was lying. Akio had given her just the right   
story, the one that would hit every nerve and be like a knife-  
thrust to her heart. Damn him. He knew her so well.

"Lying..." she murmured, head drooping. "You're lying. I'm  
not..."

A hand touched the crown of her bowed head; long fingers   
slid smoothly through her hair, traced the ridge of an ear, and  
came to rest their tips upon her cheek.

"Look at you," Akami said gently. "You, who were once so  
strong..." She sounded disgusted. "Who has done this to you?"

Utena found the grip of her fingers slipping. Now, she was  
just leaning on Akami, hands on her shoulders, a fall threatening  
if she let go. The President gently caressed her face, and she   
shivered--not merely because it was cold.

"You're beautiful. So strong, and yet, at the same time, so  
vulnerable." One finger crooked beneath her chin, raising her  
head; Akami's dark eyes were bare inches from hers, and the look  
in them was almost tender. "Have you truly nothing to offer me,   
then?"

This, Utena thought vaguely, is how mice must feel, when the  
snake rises above them on piled coils. She knew it was coming  
seconds before it happened, but was helpless to move or speak.  
Starlight, moonlight, glittered in Akami's night-coloured eyes,  
and then their lips touched. Thin, but soft, and so cold. She  
was too shocked to resist.

Teeth sank into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood.   
The coppery taste of it filled her mouth, bringing recollections  
of the dream-taste of dream-oysters. Something slick and moist  
and agile (her tongue, oh God, it was her tongue) darted across   
her bleeding lip before she found herself and began to struggle.   
But Akami had a hand on either side of her face, holding her like  
a board in a vice, and there was her tongue again, the sweet,   
metallic taste of her blood...

She swept her arms outward, breaking Akami's grip, and   
shoved her away, hard. Akami stumbled and almost fell, but  
caught herself against the trunk of the tree.

"You're crazy," Utena said dully, raising her hand to her  
torn lip in disbelief at the events of the last few moments.   
"What's _wrong_ with you?"

"What's right?" Akami said softly, and then she began to   
laugh, coldly. "You have no power any more, do you? Your heart  
has been taken from you--or did you give it up willingly? How  
sad; how terribly sad."

Utena looked away from her, pressing the back of her hand to  
her lip in the hopes of stopping the bleeding. "You're crazy,"  
she repeated in an awkward mumble.

"I am not, in fact," Akami said conversationally, leaning  
back against the tree. "Although if it makes it easier for you,  
you may think of me as such. Does it make me more sympathetic,  
in your eyes? Someone to pity, rather than fear?" She laughed  
again. "I'm not unfamiliar with such a perspective."

Utena glared at her. "I'm not afraid of you." Not entirely  
true, but she certainly wasn't so afraid as to not be willing to  
stand up to her, fight her if she had to. "I just don't _like_  
you. You hurt my friend; hell, you even hurt your own friend.  
You're dangerous."

Someone coughed theatrically from behind a distant tree   
close to the wall, then walked slowly out, voice rising lightly  
as he did. "Yes. She's dangerous. So are you. So am I.  
Anything of worth has some danger in it."

Akami looked genuinely startled to see Akio; then again,  
Utena thought, she was undoubtedly a superb actor. "You're the  
Chairman."

"Come, come," Akio said, smiling and dropping his eyes to  
the ground as he approached. He waved his hands dismissively.   
"Must you pretend you don't know any more than that, President   
Akino?"

Utena looked from one to the other, muscles tensed for fight  
or flight. But she did not seem the centre of things, suddenly;  
there was the tension of a confrontation in the air, but it was  
between Akio and Akami, with her as no more than subsidiary  
observer.

"You are quite correct," Akio continued, when it seemed  
Akami had no inclination to say anything. "She has no power to  
offer you."

Akami said nothing.

"But I do." He held out his left hand, palm upturned and  
facing towards the starry sky. Something small and silver   
glistened upon the dark skin like the mark of a wound.

"Don't listen to him," Utena said softly.

Ignoring her as though she wasn't even present, Akami took a  
few steps towards Akio, then stopped. She licked her lips, then  
touched a finger to them and studied him impassively.

"Power, you say?" she said eventually.

Utena began to move to step between them, then hesitated and  
stopped as Akio moved to close the distance. They stood before  
one another now, Akio holding out the ring, Akami studying it.

Akio nodded. "Power enough to revolutionize the world."

Akami seemed to consider it for a moment, and then she   
suddenly struck out and dashed the ring from his hands. It rang  
as it bounced off the tightly-fitted paving stones of the path,  
then rolled into the adjoining grass.

"No. I don't think I'll wear your shackle."

Akio's face tightened briefly, as Utena allowed herself a  
faint smile; then he bent down to retrieve the ring, as Akami  
stalked smoothly past him, back towards the light of Kanae   
Memorial Hall.

"Didn't go as planned, did it?" she asked softly, as he  
straightened.

He shrugged, and said nothing.

"Let me take a guess," she continued. "The two of you   
arranged this whole thing. That big story she told me about her  
childhood, which you hoped I'd believe because of all that talk I  
used to have about wanting to be a prince, because you know that  
people are more likely to believe a lie if it fulfills a wish.  
I'm not going to guess at the reason behind the lesbian vampire  
act--maybe it turned you on. But... now that I've seen her  
reject your offer of power, I'm supposed to be thinking, 'Gosh,  
maybe she isn't working for him', and then I'm supposed to start  
to trust her, huh, or just let my guard down?"

Akio, slowly, blinked.

"You're learning," he said finally, and smiled, appearing  
pleasantly surprised. "I offer again, Utena-kun; if you wish,   
we can simply make a duel of this, and end it, one way or the   
other."

"I'm beginning to think that's what you want," Utena said  
softly. "Though I can't imagine why. I don't know what you've  
spun here, Akio, but--"

He spread his hands; his smile disarmed her, so sad and  
weary that it hurt to see. "Once a man's work is finished, he  
goes peacefully to the grave."

She started; a chill ran icy-footed down her spine, then  
seated itself cross-legged in her stomach. "What do you mean?"

No reply; he turned and began to walk away from her. She  
dashed after him, seized him by the shoulder, and spun him around  
to face her. "What have you done?" she hissed. "Akio, what have  
you done?"

He regarded her flatly. Then, slowly, terribly, his mouth  
crooked into a rictus-grin. There was, she realized, something  
_lacking_ in him, as though he were only a hollow man. A  
headpiece filled with straw. 

"Disappointing, isn't it?" he asked softly. Quiet and  
meaningless; rat's feet over broken glass. "To have come all  
this way, only to finally realize that you're years too late."

She struck him, then, a hard blow across the face with the  
back of her right hand; more than a slap, less than a fist. He  
staggered with the force of it, and seemed about to fall. Then  
he steadied himself and looked at her intently, the awful smile   
still on his face.

"I set things into motion the day you tore her from me," he  
whispered. 

Utena nervously bit her lip, forgetting for a moment that it  
was injured, and nearly brought tears to her eyes as her teeth  
shifted the torn flap of skin. "What have you done?" she  
repeated. As though he would tell her! 

"The greatest revolutions," Akio intoned, "are the ones that  
no one realizes have happened until long after they have passed."

Without thinking, she seized him by the lapels. "Answer   
me!"

He merely smirked at her. It was so like the smile she'd  
once adored that it made her feel sick; just a little cruel curve  
to the edges of the lips and a leaden flatness in the green   
eyes was all it took to render his expression horribly mocking.

Not entirely to her surprise, she found her hands had closed  
around his throat. He was taller than her, but his posture was  
slumped, whereas hers was almost painfully rigid. His eyes  
widened a little; then she tensed the muscles of her hands and  
squeezed, and he gasped aloud.

"What. Have. You. Done?"

His fingers scrabbled at her wrists. She nearly smiled. He  
was weak. Weak as a newborn kitten. His eyes were bulging. Was  
that a little blue in his dark face, like the ocean spreading   
into the night sky? It was hard to tell, in this dim light;   
moonlight, starlight, and everything seemed half-real, ethereal.  
This all was like a dream.

Akio fell to his knees, arms hanging limp at his sides. She  
could feel his adam's apple bulging against her palms as he tried  
to draw breath. 

I could kill him, she thought, and something in her thrilled  
at that. Simply keep up the pressure long enough. Or, just give  
a twist, and break his neck. It would be easy. Look at how weak   
he is. Just a shell. Feel how he tries to gasp for breath, but   
none will come. His life, literally, is in your hands.

Is this not just? Is it not what you came here for? In the  
end, all his charm and grace and seduction can do nothing against  
this. Raw violence. Power, springing not from lies, illusions  
and manipulation; a terribly honest strength, this hate.

and thus

does the new prince

take the place

of the old

With a sudden cry of horror, she flung Akio aside. He   
collapsed to the paving stones, limp and unmoving. Utena stared  
at her trembling hands in utter disbelief.

"Akio-san... Akio-san, get up... I--"

He did not stir. Still as death (she wanted to take back   
the simile as soon as it passed through her mind), Akio lay on  
his side, one arm flung out, the other curled against his chest.  
His back was to her, and she could not see his face. Somewhere  
amidst the crimson haze of her violence, his hair had fallen  
loose from its ponytail, and draped across the stones; in the  
moonlight and starlight, it was almost silver, like a puddle of  
mirrored water.

Numb, possessed by the sense that her body was only a  
marionette, responding jerkily to the so-distant pulls of   
unknown strings, Utena knelt down by Akio and tremblingly pushed  
her fingers through the curtain of his hair to touch his neck.  
His skin was smooth and cold as the face of a porcelain doll.

"Akio-san..." She wanted to vomit. She wanted to take all  
this back. How had she ever even imagined that she could do this  
thing? She had not the strength to bear the consequences of   
this, even if no one else ever knew that the blood was on her   
hands. It would end her, this death. This murder.

Someone called to her, softly, from some distance away.  
"Tenjou-san." 

She started and looked up. A dark tall shape stood a dozen  
steps away; she squinted through the threat of tears, and it  
dimly resolved itself into Leo Cano.

"I--" Her voice broke, fallen away into some chasm in  
herself that would never be closed. Cano approached, his hard-  
soled shoes sounding resolutely on the stones. She felt an  
absence beneath her touch. 

Looking down, she saw that no trace of Akio was to be found.  
Shocked, frightened, she stumbled to her feet and backed away  
from where his body had lain; her heel caught on some errancy in  
the fitting of the paving stones, and she fell. Running feet,  
and then arms caught and steadied her in a half-embrace; she  
smelt old smoke and faded roses in Leo Cano's coat, as her head  
fell briefly against his chest.

He held her--perhaps--a moment longer than he had to, then  
released her as she found her footing again. His concern seemed  
genuine. "Tenjou-san, what were you doing?"

"Where did he go?"

Cano's lined face quirked into a displeased frown. "Who?"

"He was here. I touched him. Where did he go?"

The frown grew. "I have observed you since you left the  
gallery. You spoke with the girl, had some altercation with her,  
and then she left. You stood for a moment alone, and then fell  
to you knees as though smitten, at which point I approached out   
of concern for your welfare."

"But--" She blanched slightly and swallowed her words.   
"You were spying on me?"

"It could be seen that way. I was hoping you would lead me  
to the devil; I have heard his voice tonight, but seen no sight  
of him."

"He was right here!" Utena exploded, gesturing at the the  
spot where Akio had fallen. "I--"

"You are mistaken," Leo said coolly. "If he had been here,   
you see, I would have taken this..." He reached into an inner   
pocket of his coat and withdrew a slim, wood-handled dagger in a  
smooth leather sheath. "And stabbed him through the heart with  
it. So, since I did not do so, rest assured that he was not  
here."

"But--what is that, anyway?"

He unsheathed the dagger and turned it a little from side to  
side with motions of his wrist. The blade was dark watered   
steel, and appeared very sharp. "The blade was forged with iron   
taken from Saint Dunstan's tongs, with which he seized the nose   
of the Prince of Darkness himself. And I believe the hilt was   
carved from a branch of the tree of Saint Sebastian's martyrdom,   
though I put marginally less faith in that than in the origins of  
the blade."

Utena went very quiet for a moment, then asked, "Where the  
heck do you get something like that, anyway?"

Cano hid the dagger away in his coat again. "He wasn't   
here, Tenjou-san. Have you been drinking a particularly large  
amount of wine tonight, perhaps?"

There was almost a note of condescension in his voice, but  
not quite. Utena gritted her teeth and restrained herself from  
a retort. Whatever was going on, it was damn funny, whatever it  
was. It hadn't felt like herself, with Akio, her hands around  
his throat. She couldn't even remember clearly what had been  
going through her head. Had she slipped, somehow, into another  
world, wandered briefly in the skin of some other-Utena as she  
killed some other-Akio?

"You had best go back inside," Cano said, not unkindly,  
taking her elbow with one hand. "The night is cold, and you're  
not as old and tough as I am."

They walked a few steps towards Kanae Memorial Hall in  
silence, and then Utena paused. "Don't spy on me any more."

"That is not a commitment I can make, so I will not swear  
myself to it."

They walked on. "You saw everything, huh?"

"You resisted her unclean advances quite admirably, although  
I perhaps noted some hesitance at the start."

She glared at him. "Seriously. Don't spy on me any more.  
It creeps me out."

"And I would recommend putting some kind of disinfectant on  
your lip."

A short distance from the side door through which she and  
Akami had exited, she paused again, beneath the cover of the  
overhanging balcony. "Cano-san?"

He dropped his hand from her elbow. "Yes?"

"What happened to you, in the end? When you stopped being  
the Engaged One? Do you remember?"

A shadow seemed to crawl across his face; his eyes narrowed  
nearly to slits. "I remember it all," he said softly. "And I  
got away. That's all you need to know, Tenjou-san; I got away  
from them both. And I've spent nearly half a century preparing  
for this time, praying to God that I should be strong enough for  
it when it came."

Utena could almost see the great gulf open up between them,  
like a yawning mouth. There was no possibility of bridging it:   
the fallen angel and his willing consort, or the fallen prince   
and his enslaved sister. The views could not be reconciled.

"I warned you to stay away from Anthy, whatever may come of  
this," she said softly. "I meant it, Cano-san. Don't forget  
that."

He made no reply. She turned and walked away from him. He  
did not follow.

* * *

"You're upset with me, aren't you?"

"Did you expect me not to be?"

Shiori's smile was tiny and almost coquettish; that   
particular expression was familiar enough to Juri. It seldom  
failed to induce an almost physically painful ache of desire and  
love in her. "No. But I didn't think you'd be so upset."

Juri forced herself to cling to the anger. "I'm not upset."

They were beneath the shadow of the second-floor gallery, in  
what passed for a secluded corner. The painting behind them was   
a pastoral summer landscape, all rich-hued foliage and fat yellow  
sun. The only sign of human existence was an abandoned picnic--  
blue cloth, wicker basket, stacked plates, no people--in one   
corner, added by the artist as a seeming afterthought.

"I know you better than that," Shiori said softly. "If it  
means anything, I'm sorry. It's only that--"

"Only what?"

"If I'm not angry at him, what right do you have to be angry  
at him for my sake?" 

Juri folded her arms and looked to the side, away from   
Shiori; focus, intently, on that one specific patch of the wooden  
floor. "It isn't only about you."

"It's not as though it doesn't still hurt, of course." She  
might as well not have said anything at all, from all the   
attention Shiori paid her. "He was an important person to me,  
even though we didn't go out for very long. He made me feel   
special; so many girls wanted him, and I had him. Just like   
before; just like before." Shiori shook her head ruefully;   
light caught delicately in the highlights of her hair with the  
motion. "But it wasn't as though I didn't know what I was  
getting into, Juri. He was the campus playboy. All the same..."  
She smiled sadly. "You know, the first thing I ever did to Ruka   
was lie to him? And he knew; I'm not surprised he treated me the   
way he did. What he must have thought of me, even when--"

"He didn't have any right," Juri snapped. Shiori flinched  
as though struck, and she struggled to soften her voice. "No  
right at all to involve you as he did."

"He wanted to help you," said Shiori after a moment,   
hesitantly and softly. "That was..."

Juri closed her eyes. The pain was nearly a decade old, and  
felt fresh as a yesterday. "He didn't have to hurt you like he  
did."

"Maybe he thought I deserved it." Shiori laughed quietly,  
derisively. "Maybe I did. I... I wasn't a very nice person back  
then, Juri."

"I wrote him a letter, you know. After I heard the news. I  
liked letter-writing, in those days. It's easier to wear the  
face you want when you're not face-to-face. I put it in an  
envelope, sealed it, stamped it, and put in the drawer of my desk  
and just left it there. I don't know what happened to it. I  
don't even remember what I wrote in it. But I wrote to him as  
though he could read it, as though he were still alive..."

A hand brushed her face, lightly tracing cheeks, eyebrows,  
bridge of nose. "Juri, you're crying."

Her eyes snapped open; she gritted her teeth and stepped  
back from Shiori to wipe the few escaped tears from her cheeks.  
You are in public, she reminded herself. Have some composure.

"I'm sorry," she said stiffly. "As I was saying, it isn't  
just what he did to you that I'm angry about. I still don't   
trust him completely. I remember what he was like during the   
days of the Revolution. People change, but they don't change  
completely."

"They can change enough, can't they?"

Juri sighed. "Yes. Maybe they can. I don't know."

"And he loves Utena. You can see that, can't you? Really  
loves her, I mean; he wouldn't do anything to hurt her. You  
don't hurt people you love."

Juri found herself smiling, and wishing she wasn't. She   
wanted impulsively to reach out and embrace Shiori, kiss her on  
her small, full lips, tell her how much she loved her. If they  
hadn't been in public... she remembered how she'd told Utena once  
that she was just like Shiori. Their cruel innocence. What  
neither of them realized was that the people who loved you, who  
you loved, could hurt you worse than anyone else ever could.

"No," she heard herself say, as though listening from some  
point outside of her body; an angel on her own shoulder. "You're  
right. He wouldn't do anything to hurt Utena." She found   
herself believing it, realizing with that belief that she could  
forgive Kiryuu Touga. It was like a burden lifted from her. She  
wondered if he had been right, if much of her anger had only been  
projected onto him because Ruka couldn't be here to bear it.

Shiori was nodding. Juri felt as though she was watching   
her lover, her beloved, with some medium between them. A  
television screen or camera lens. An insurmountable distance   
combined with almost voyeuristic intimacy. 

"Utena's really a good person, isn't she?"

The affectionate warmth in Shiori's voice was, perhaps,   
slightly disconcerting, but Juri simply nodded, lost in the  
labyrinth of her own thoughts. "Yes, she is; when I think about  
it, then and now, she's probably the best person I've ever   
known."

In a way, she did wish Ruka were here. There had been so  
many things she wanted to say to him. Some of them were angry,  
but hardly all. Her feelings were tangled; there were two   
selves, intertwined. One remembered a sad, formal letter from   
his mother: "Juri-san, my son mentioned you often during his   
illness, and requested in his last days that I..." And the other  
remembered the chattering voices of the nurses.

The frightening thought that she had no real way of knowing  
which memory was real--both were equally vivid--occurred to her.  
Utena had, she believed, restored her true memories; but wasn't  
it possible, somehow, that she'd simply put new memories...

"Juri? What are you thinking about? It's like you're a  
million miles away from me."

"Silly things," she said, shaking her head slightly and  
coming back to herself. "Nothing important." She frowned.   
"Speaking of Utena, where is she? I expected she'd be back as  
soon as I finished talking to Hozumi Mari, but..."

Shiori frowned as well, almost a mirror of Juri in the set  
of her lips. "Mari-san seems like a nice person. All those  
things Nanami told us make me worried for her."

Juri nodded. "I didn't talk to her as long as I would have  
liked. She said she had to check up on something. I think the  
important thing is for her to realize that Nanami isn't on her   
own in this; she'll start to think about that, and--" She shut  
her mouth, as Shiori cast a subtly pointed glance over the top of  
her shoulder towards someone Juri couldn't see.

"Hello again, Juri-sempai, Shiori-sempai."

Juri turned, concealing her frown beneath a hasty smile.   
"Hello again, Miki." Shiori gave a nearly identical greeting.  
"Everything seems to be going very well." 

Miki nodded, then coughed into his fist and looked slightly  
embarassed. "Umm..."

"Yes?"

"Would you like to dance, Juri-sempai?" He coughed again.  
"With me, I mean. The quartet's finished their break, and..."

Juri almost laughed, managed not to. "I'd love to." She  
looked significantly to Shiori. "Shiori, I suppose you'll be  
after me. Then he'll want to dance with Utena; perhaps you  
should see if you can find her so he doesn't have to look   
around." She glanced back at Miki, who was blushing furiously.  
"Quite the playboy tonight, aren't you?"

"Juri!" he squeaked. "It's not--"

She took his hand, which silenced him, and began to lead him  
towards the dance floor. Shiori, she saw, had moved off already,  
looking for Utena. Good. "I get to lead, right?" she teased.

"If you want," Miki demurred, smiling and going along with  
the joke, a high colour still in his cheeks. "I understand the   
man is usually supposed to lead, but..."

Juri laughed softly. The quartet began to play. She put  
her left hand lightly on his right shoulder; somewhat hesitantly,  
he put his right hand on her waist, just above the curve of her  
hip, and took her right hand in his left. His right side to her  
left; they were almost the same height. Maybe he was a little  
shorter. She let him lead all the same. They joined the line of  
the dance, and began to waltz. The quartet were fine players,  
she thought, particularly for their youth; they would go far.

It felt good, to be dancing with her old friend. There  
was nothing uneasy or excessively intimate about it, though   
their bodies were close enough that every subtle movement he made  
in the dance was palpable to her. She had always been more  
comfortable around him then anyone else--had always felt that  
they were kindred souls, in their way, showing so little but  
feeling so much. He'd explained to her once about what the song  
he always played meant to him--the inexpressible beauty, so  
intangible that words, even music, could not render it. She was  
no musician herself, but she understood; the breakdown of  
communication, the inadequacy of all languages. Never being able  
to say the right thing.

The music swelled. It seemed somehow greater than what   
could be produced by a mere quartet. Like a wave, it swept her  
along; she felt free and joyous. Worries were ended. Dancing  
with Miki, dear Miki, and it might as well have been the end of  
the world for all she cared in that moment. Then, out of the  
corner of her eye, as they turned and stepped (never once  
trampling upon one another's feet, for their grace was not  
confined merely to fencing) in time with the music, she saw  
Shiori, clasped in Akio's arms. Four dancing couples between  
them. Shiori looked like a marionette, a tiny thing, dwarfed and  
manipulated by the tall, powerful form of the Chairman. Of the   
Ends of the World.

Fool! her brain screamed. What is wrong with you? There  
was something in the air, there had to be, some power of  
fascination and distraction carried with the music like a  
soporific drug. Utena had been gone too long, and what was she  
_doing_?, dancing with Miki, when there was Shiori to watch out  
for--except she hadn't even managed that, because there she was,  
there was her love, separated by the whirling dancers, caught up  
in the dark embrace of the fallen prince. How could she have let  
that happen? Fools, fools, they have known well enough what he  
was, the kind of power he had (she remembered the heat of his  
skin beneath the shirt beneath her fingers, the almost physical  
pressure of his presence) and yet they had come into this...

"Juri? What's wrong?" Miki asked it in a whisper, barely  
audible over the music, which now seemed almost daemonically  
loud. Unconsciously, she realized she'd been pulling away from  
him. Getting ready to move through the dancers by herself,   
towards Shiori and Akio. What was she going to do? Attack him  
in public? Pull her out of his arms?

Yes, she realized, suddenly finding herself full of rage,  
and delighted to be so. She thought: That's exactly what I'm  
going to do. I'll knock his damn head off. How _dare_ he!?

Miki wasn't letting her go. "Juri, are you..."

The violins screamed like tortured animals; the cello was a  
droning chant, with the viola as a whining, sarcastic orator upon  
the whole mess. The dancers seemed to be everywhere, filling the  
gallery, spilling out into the cold night beyond, into the side  
hallways, clustered in the gallery above their heads, and none of  
them had any faces at all. She couldn't see Shiori any more.   
How could anyone bear to play such hideous music? She felt like  
a bird in the hand of fear; her heart beat against her ribcage  
like a desperate prisoner. Miki's hand was tight around hers,   
but he was smiling at her, concerned.

"Pardon--may we cut in?"

There was a whirl of motion, so quick it seemed she couldn't  
follow it, and she found herself, somehow, dancing with Touga,   
and nearby Miki and Nanami were slipping away into the faceless  
crowd, losing their distinctions...

"What's going on?" Her voice, dazed and not her own,   
sounded like a child's to her ears.

"I don't know," Touga said. His jaw was tight as he led her  
through the dancers. "Nanami found me and said Utena might be in  
trouble, but then we spotted this, and..." He gave a tiny shrug,  
which didn't seem to interfere at all with his dancing ability.

"Watch your hands," she warned, looking around for Shiori  
and trying to recover her bearings.

"Please; have some respect for my intelligence and   
discretion." A crowd of dancers swirled apart like birds taking  
flight, and she saw them, her Shiori in the grip of Akio; her   
teeth ground together loud enough to be heard over the music.

Akio's eyes fixed on her as they approached, and they were  
Ruka's eyes on the night by the fountain, when she had stood in  
the shadows and watched him press his lips to Shiori's, and his  
smile was Ruka's smile; her rage rose up like a drawn sword.

"Akio-san," Touga said smoothly. "An exchange?"

"Delightful," Akio replied; he released Shiori, and Touga  
released her. 

Akio was reaching out for her; then, beautifully,  
near-magnificently, in a move that nearly made her laugh out loud   
and forgive him every wrong he had ever done, Touga grabbed Akio   
in the leading position of a waltz, and spun him away into the  
crowd. Shiori, suddenly, was her dance partner, and she was  
crying.

"I couldn't do anything, Juri... he took my hand and looked  
at me, and it was like I wasn't even _there_ any more, and I   
wanted him so much..."

"Shush. It's all right." She held Shiori close, suddenly  
not caring for anyone else's opinion, whatever it might be; held  
her close, and kissed her gently on the forehead, so filled up  
with love that it almost hurt her, as though she were an   
inadequate vessel, too small to contain all she wished to, too  
cracked to hold onto what little she could contain.

They danced close together, not a waltz by any means, but  
the music had stopped by now. The dancers were slowly coming to  
a halt, like clockwork breaking down. She looked to the stage,  
and saw the quartet sitting stock-still in their chairs, their  
instruments resting on the floor before them; they stared  
blankly ahead as though at some invisible wonder. Three figures  
stood on the stage before them; one was adjusting the microphone,  
braids swaying as she did. They wore the school uniform, quite  
out of place amidst the elegant dress of all the other girls   
there. Juri did not know them, could make out no features at   
this distance (odd, that, as she could see the blank eyes of the  
Ohtori Quartet with perfect clarity), yet she feared them.

She cast her head about, seeking for the others amidst the  
crowd, but finding them not; then the lights went out, and she  
heard, faintly, some strange music, the demented offspring of a  
calliope and a Moog synthesizer.

Shiori cried out when the darkness fell, and Juri tightened  
her embrace. Voices called in fright and confusion; someone  
stumbled against them and threatened to separate them, but she  
clung tightly to Shiori and tensed in preparation for whatever   
was to come.

A spotlight speared, impossibly, from somewhere high above.  
White like the moon, it reduced the stage it struck to a stark  
monochrome tableau. The quartet were gone, as were their   
chairs--as was everything, but the three figures and the  
microphone.

Someone cleared their throat, loudly. The panicked voices  
went quiet at that. Shiori trembled in her arms.

good evening!

we hope you've all enjoyed yourselves so far!

but what's past is prologue!

for the best (and the worst) is yet to come!

we'd like to draw your attention to the stage (as though it  
isn't drawn there already, but...), because it's time for:

t*h*e m*a*g*i*c*i*a*n

a tragical-comical-historical-pastoral morality  
play in five acts, a prelude, a postlude, three musical  
numbers and one solo mime act by the renowned   
c-ko!

(interpretive dance will accompany, time permitting)

A Presentation of the Theatre of Shadows

(the theatre of shadows would like to kindly thank  
kashira studios, creators of the "robot battler   
akira" series, for their kind sponsorship)

 

(note)

*******************************   
*THERE WILL BE NO INTERMISSION*  
*******************************

(we mean that)

* * *

Then they woke up in a white car with red leather upholstery on a  
stone dais in a room full of gold and silver beneath the Crest of  
the Rose. Tangled together in the back seat like lovers, only   
their clothes (disheveled though they were) as a barrier between  
naked skin against naked skin. Limbs entwined like roots. Her  
cheek upon his chest. Translucent flakes of snake-shed skin lay  
scattered all around them like ripped rose petals. 

...(s)he loves me, (s)he loves me not...

To Anthy's relief, Kyouichi seemed asleep at first; she had  
woken before him. There was a chance to avoid piling one more  
awkwardness upon a mounting immensity of them. After some quiet  
facile wriggling, she got her legs free of his. One arm remained  
pinned under his still body. Slowly, carefully, she began to   
work it free.

Near the completion of that task, his eyes snapped open,   
unfocused and wild. Lips parted in a sneering snarl, showing  
clenched teeth. One hand reached up and tightly seized her   
shoulder, forcing her to bite back a cry of pain. 

"Kyouichi," she gasped.

He came back to himself. A mirror's sudden shattering.  
Shamed, he released her, and raised his torso so she could free  
her arm. Anthy sat up, opened the door, and stepped out onto the  
cold stone floor of the dais. Precious metals winked in the   
torchlight, and gems sparkled. They had returned to the treasure   
room of her brother's trophy hall. Or perhaps they had never   
left it.

"Anthy... did we dream all that?" Kyouichi whispered,   
reclining wearily in the back seat and covering his eyes with the  
back of one hand. "Did we..."

She looked back at him while brushing bits of snakekin from   
her dress, skin and hair. They drifted slowly to her feet and   
lay like the first fallings of snow. "I think it was something  
more than a dream. But it was something less than waking." She  
paused thoughtfully, and craned her head back to fix her eyes   
upon the Rose Crest on the ceiling. Black marble upon grey  
granite. Had it been black before? Had it been black the last  
time she had been here? Had she ever been here before? Had this  
place existed before she came to it?

The Rose Crest hung above her. Black on grey. She realized  
that the black was veined with white, faintly. She had no idea  
what that meant. If it meant anything at all. Like a wheel, she  
thought; it was like a wheel. The simile had never occured to   
her before. Or, if it had, she had forgotten the occurence.   
There was the rim, and there were the spokes, and there they all   
were, bound upon them...

"Or perhaps it was something more than waking," she said  
finally, opening the driver's door and slipping in behind the   
wheel. On the front passenger seat, lying neatly atop a folded  
green sweater, lay a mirror of gold, wrapped in cloth-of-gold   
that hid the face. She double-checked; the dagger of silver did,  
indeed, hang at her waist.

Saionji put the mirror and the sweater into the back seat,  
then got in beside her. He put his head in his hands. "The eyes  
are what I remember."

Anthy paused with her hand on the ignition key. "The eyes?"

"The snake's eyes. They held eternity. They held...   
everything. I think..." He looked up at her, dropping his hands  
into his lap and linking their fingers. His eyes were   
melancholy, but held no hint of derangement. "It used to be that  
I imagined eternity to be the most beautiful thing in the world.  
Like a ring of pure light, outside of time, looping back upon  
itself, lovely forever, without beginning or end. But..."

"But?"

"What is eternity, really?" he whispered. "Could it not   
just as easily be a never-ending darkness? Endless pleasure or  
endless pain? A hell, as easily as a heaven?" He shuddered, and  
grew pale. "I think eternity might be a terrible thing, Anthy."

There was a silent plea in his speech. She could read it  
clearly as though she truly were able to touch his mind: tell me  
that it is not. Tell me it is beautiful. Tell me it is what I  
have always dreamed it is.

After a moment, with the ignition key still ready for a turn  
in her fingers, Anthy replied, softly and a little sadly.   
"Eternity's only a way of speaking of a thing you can't ever   
really know."

He sighed gently. "It is, isn't it? I suppose I always  
knew that. I am a mortal being; a being bound by the chains of  
time. How could I ever hope to touch eternity, and know the   
least of what I touched?"

"The blind sages and the elephant," Anthy said.

He looked at her oddly. "What?"

She took her hand off the key and waved it vaguely. "You  
know the story, don't you? One of them feels the trunk, and he  
says 'an elephant is like a rope'. And another feels the leg,  
and says 'an elephant is like a marble pillar'. And another..."

"...feels the ear, and says, 'an elephant is like a fan'."  
Kyouichi paused for a moment. "Yes. I remember that story now.  
From a picture-book Nanami had." He frowned. "So, eternity is  
like the elephant?"

"Something like that," Anthy said, finally giving the key a  
turn. The car rumbled for a moment like a waking cat, and then  
the engine caught. "Orobouros, the serpent who bites his own  
tail... he is as a flea on the back of the elephant."

"I think the metaphor is breaking down," Kyouichi said  
dubiously.

"They do that, taken far enough." Anthy folded her arms and  
waited expectantly. The engine purred smoothly, but the car did  
not move.

"What did you mean by 'something more than waking', Anthy?"

She thought on it for a moment, then finally admitted, "I'm  
not really sure. It only seemed the appropriate thing to say."

"Can you dream in a dream?" he asked softly, more to himself  
than to her. "Can a thing in a dream, dream?"

Anthy's face quirked into an odd frown. "What do you mean?"

"Nanami's picture-books," Kyouichi said distantly. He  
glanced at her in seeming apology, and seemed to decide more  
explanation was needed. "It was a long time ago. After Touga  
learned to read, but before Nanami could. She was always   
insisting he read to her, even when I was over at their house.  
All the time." He smiled faintly. "I can still remember how it  
always used to go. 'Oniisama, read me a story?' 'I'll read you  
a story after Kyouichi goes home, Nanami.' 'No! Now,   
oniisama!'" He laughed and shook his head. "And I'd say it was  
all right. We were very young. I must have been about eight,   
which would have made Nanami four." How far away he seems, Anthy  
thought. "The truth was, I liked listening to Touga read. You  
know how some kids read out loud really haltingly, stumbling over  
the words? Not him." Again, he laughed, but it was sad. "Of  
course, I couldn't ever tell him that kind of thing. That I   
liked to listen to him read stories. Touga was... different, in  
those days. He read stories to Nanami like he believed in them.  
And I remember one time, when I was around, and he read her a  
chapter from 'Through the Looking Glass'. The one with   
Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They take Alice..." Once more,  
laughter. "Nanami had a dress when she was about that age that  
looked just like the one Alice wears in the Tenniel   
illustrations." He coughed lightly, and cleared his throat.  
"So, Tweedledum and Tweedledee show Alice a man asleep under a  
tree in the forest. The Red King. They tell her that he's  
dreaming; he's dreaming about her. She's only a sort of thing in  
his dream. And if he were to wake--bang!--out just like a   
candle."

He clapped his hands upon saying "bang!", then looked  
embarassed. His distance receded. "I don't know why I thought  
of that. Only what you said about 'something more than waking'  
made it come to mind." He scowled and looked at the wheel of the  
car. "Is this thing going to go anywhere any time soon?"

"Why did you lose touch with Touga, Kyouichi?" Anthy asked.  
"When I left Ohtori, the two of you were close again."

Kyouichi didn't say anything for nearly a minute, and   
neither did she. Finally, he said, softly, "He slept with my  
wife."

Anthy's eyes widened, and he hastened to clarify, still  
speaking soft and low as though worried about eavesdroppers.   
"Not after we were married, I mean. It was in her final year of  
high school. We weren't even going out at the time, technically.  
We'd had a terrible fight--all my fault--and I'd said some awful  
things to her. It was a bad time for me, shortly after I dropped  
out of college. That made my father very unhappy with me.   
There was talk of disowning me." He visibly flinched, and his  
head drooped. "But I'm trying to excuse myself. Touga took her  
out to dinner; they'd gotten to know each other through me, and  
she said he made it seem like just something between two friends.  
I don't know if he planned it from the start or not. Wakaba said  
they both had a little too much wine, but..." He took a deep  
breath. "Wakaba has too good a heart sometimes, and will try and  
excuse things that are inexcusable. They ended up back at his  
apartment, and..." He shrugged. "Well. I don't need to say any  
more, do I?"

"No," Anthy said. She was silent for a long time. Then:  
"Thank you. For telling me that." He didn't reply, and she went   
on. "It helps me to understand you better."

"I could have killed him when I found out," Kyouichi said.  
"When Wakaba told me. She was in tears on the phone. I... we   
had a duel. With shinnais. I think he thought it would help to  
calm me down. It didn't. I didn't fight by the kendo rules, and  
I split his head open. There was a lot of blood. And I meant to  
do it, as well; I meant to hurt him. I don't really remember   
what I was thinking. After he fell, I didn't call for help. I  
just left him there. Thank God Nanami found him so quickly." He  
sighed. "I could have been in a lot of trouble. Should have   
been in a lot of trouble. But I found out that Touga told   
everyone who asked that it was just an accident." He hung his  
head. "I still don't know why. Perhaps he actually felt   
guilty." A short bark of laughter, bitter and hard to hear.   
"And that's how I lost touch with Touga. We've hardly spoken to  
each other since then."

Anthy leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, saying  
nothing. The car's engine continued its steady purr. She began  
to wonder if the technical crew had simply been putting her on.  
If they'd been real at all.

Finally, the silence became too much to bear any longer. Do  
you think he really loved Utena at the end? she asked.

I don't know, Kyouichi replied. I'm not sure if he's even  
capable of such a thing.

it's a terrible thing when friends fight.

touga used to say that only fools believe in   
friendship.

She tried to open her eyes, found she did not have eyes to  
open, nor ears to hear the roaring of the engines of the chariots  
of the sun. Nor a body, to feel red leather upholstery beneath  
her. Nor a tongue, to cry out.

"I hope you don't suppose those are _real_ tears?"

A tone of great contempt, emanating from the red, red eyes  
which filled her universe. 

anthy, what's happening?

anthy?

anthy?

anthy

anthy?

anthy?

anthy?

anthy?

anthy?

 

* * *

Utena walked down the dimly welcoming and completely empty   
hallway towards the gallery, hands thrust into her pockets.   
She'd left the winter night behind outside, but couldn't rid  
herself of her chill. The phantom shape of Akio's slim throat  
clung to her hands like silk gloves, too tight. She wondered  
what had happened out there: where had she slipped into, or who  
had slipped into her? Whose hands? Whose throat?

And thus does the new prince take the place of the old. The  
words woke something in her; she remembered reading a book, years  
back. Sacrificial kings; they ruled for a year, they _were_ a   
god for a year. And then at the end of the years, they were  
hamstrung, and the new king came to kill them and take their   
place, knowing that in a year he would be the old king, and the  
new king would come to take _his_ place, going all the same...

Something stirred within the cave of the heart. A bird with   
iron wings, preening her feathers. Eggs beneath her. Steel   
shells, molten yolks. But still the cold. Who am I? Who are  
you? What land is this, what people? To Ohtori I came, where a  
cauldron of unholy loves bubbled up all around me. These are _my_  
arms, swinging at my side; and these are _my_ feet, rising and   
falling upon the wooden floors; and these are _my_ eyes, passing  
over sculpture and painting and stained-glass window, over the   
roses, the damnable roses, whatever did they _mean_, really?   
Rose of all roses, rose of all the world; who dreamed that beauty  
passes like a dream? Not I; I was the girl who saw eternity's   
face. I came here to meet my prince, and found that there was no   
such thing to meet. Footsteps echo all around. _My_ footsteps.   
But don't there seem to be too many? Can the dead linger on?--of   
course they can. The prince is dead; long live what lives on,   
if living it can be called. Do you prick your thumb for me,   
your highness? By the biting of my thumbs, something wicked this  
way comes. O lost! Dark dark dark, we all go into the dark,   
after one last dance round the prickly pear and the mulberry   
bush; to the sawdust restaurants with their oyster shells where  
the walrus and the carpenter sit dining beneath the widening   
gyre; my dam held that the Quiet made all things which Setebos  
vexed only. Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! 'Thinketh He   
dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. Will one strange day, the  
Quiet catch and conquer Setebos, or likelier he decrepit may   
doze, as good as die?

Utena reeled; she staggered like a drunken woman, stumbled  
as though over a thousand invisible impediments; fell like a  
falling angel, and caught, caught a door handle, and thus came  
into a place without light. Then a spotlight, and voices.  
Threats without malice. And the audience, stunned into   
imbecility.

we're so pleased you all could be here tonight!

you don't often get an audience like this!

it's been years in the making, this   
performance!

tonight is...

the night...

that all the secrets come out.

the beginning of it all.

the ending of it all.

the story that could not be told.

the true story.

the story of which all other stories are but shadows, and  
shadows of shadows.

the master narrative.

you're all gathered here...

THE PAST

(spotlights fall like spears: Akino Tokiko, Ohtori Hoshimi, Leo  
Cano, an empty space where no one stands)

THE PRESENT

(spotlights flicker and fade. They fall again: Tenjou Utena,   
Himemiya Anthy, Saionji Kyouichi, Kaoru Miki, Arisugawa Juri,  
Kiryuu Nanami, Kiryuu Touga...)

(pst.)

(what?)

(problem.)

(oh, no. why now, of all nights?)

(they've been delayed.)

(huddle.)

the show must go on!

if all goes well, this will be the first of many performances.

they can catch it in repertory.

THE FUTURE

(spotlights on: Akino Akami, Akino Hasuichi, Hozumi Mari,   
Tsuwabuki Mitsuru--)

(damn it.)

(not again.)

"Boo!" someone in the audience said. "Amateurs! Get off   
the stage!" No one ever found out who.

(just start the prelude.)

t*h*e m*a*g*i*c*i*a*n

prelude

the truth of the fall of the prince of the roses

in which we learn at last how the prince became the magician

(the prince stood with his back to the audience)

how wearisome my existence becomes

(h e a d j u s t  
edhisfinegold  
encrown)

the lips of each princess are sweet as spring cherries, but   
I am forbidden to taste?

(he paced, shaking his fist, voice rising in anger)

is this right?

is this just?

Where is my reward?

Where is my rest?

"Where is _my_ happily-ever-after?"

The prince paused and toyed with the golden hilt of his  
sword. In the distance, through the night, he saw his castle,  
Whiterose, built upon the foothills of the Iron Mountains. Its  
pale spires glowed with a pearly luminescence in the soft cold   
light of the full moon. In the highest tower, he saw the yellow  
light of a single candle burning; he cocked his head and   
listened. The night was still and silent enough that, even at   
this distance, he could hear the clatter of Her spinning wheel,  
and Her voice, carried to him on the dark breezes:

o/` Sing, O my heart, of the gardens you know not;  
o/` Gardens as if encased in glass, clear, unattainable,  
o/` Water and roses of Ispahan or Schiras.  
o/` Bless and praise them, incomparable gardens.

"Oh, my sister, my love," he murmured. "My love, my   
sister." He buried his face in his hands. "No. No! It is not  
right that--"

Right that--

right that...

"Enough."

The solemn declaration from the audience broke the scene   
like a dropped vase; irreparably. Utena stirred and shook her  
head, frantically trying to clear it; her mouth tasted of cotton  
balls, ether, blood. It reminded her of when she'd had her  
wisdom teeth removed. Anthy in the kitchen, hair tucked up  
beneath a white kerchief, making thin, hot soups for her, the  
only thing she could eat for days.

No. The present; the _present_, stupid.

Akio stood a dozen paces from the stage; the audience had  
shrunk back from him like animals from a blazing fire. His hair  
was down, his shirt unbuttoned. The only lights were the   
spotlights hitting the stage, and he stood at the edge of that  
circle of illumination like a wolf in the night who stands in the  
darkness beyond the well-lit windows of a cottage. Apt simile,  
Utena thought, for he looked lupine enough at the moment: sleek  
dark body, thick pale hair, clenched teeth, narrowed eyes. She  
did not think she could remember ever having seen him so angry;  
he did not look at all like a man recently throttled.

"I have endured enough," he said slowly. "Down through the  
long falling of the years, again and again, I have had to put up  
with your mockery. With your lies by which fools believe you  
tell the truth. With your never-was and your never-were and your  
never-will-be. With your stories, and your games, and your   
little piping voices. I hear you in my dreams, you know, these  
days, even if I dream of the castle; I hear you laughing at me,  
deriding me, reducing my life to bathos and burlesque. And now   
this... and now this... before everyone... you speak this filth.  
This false filth. You seek to humiliate me. You--" For a  
moment, he bowed his head, clenched his fists, and could not seem  
to speak. Then he raised it again, and his eyes were dark as   
dark.

"I am Ohtori Akio, and I will not be mocked any longer."

we really don't mean to make fun of you.

we're just trying to make you understand.

(i thought we did mean to make fun of him.)

(shut up!) (shut up!)

Akio said nothing, but merely raised his left hand, with the  
thumb and forefinger held slightly apart as though gripping   
something small, slender and invisible.

Utena began to move. She heard Ohtori Hoshimi cry out in  
pure terror. "No! No, you fool, _don't_!"

It was as though she ran through waist-deep water. The  
mouths of all the guests were opening and closing slowly, as  
though masticating tough food. They were screaming, Utena  
realized; screaming in almost-frozen terror, as though at   
something they could see, but she could not. There was a deep   
bass thud, like the beat of a vast side drum; the walls of the   
gallery bulged inward, then outward, like the single pump of a   
great dark heart. Faces passed her by: Juri, Shiori, Nanami,   
Touga, Miki. Their eyes pleaded with her. She graved their   
features on her heart, not knowing why; collecting them,   
recollecting them, each and every one.

A faint light shone around Akio now; she saw it as though  
through a thin veil of mist. Golden and twinkling, and the gold  
shot through with threads of black. A pillar with Akio as the  
base, stretching from floor to ceiling. Something descending  
from above. Faint, insubstantial--a ghost, a phantom, a dream.  
A dark-skinned figure, falling, delicate and childlike; twisting   
like a leaf, like a sylph, smiling with beatific delight as   
though at a sudden freedom. Naked, androgynous, beautiful beyond  
telling; dark blue eyes, and golden hair so pale it was almost   
white. It slid into Akio as though into a hollow vessel--grew   
so that it was large enough to wear him like a skin, or he shrank  
so that he would fit it like a glove.

Akio gestured with his raised hand, a swift, dismissive,  
erasing motion. On the stage, one of the shadows cried out, a  
flowing river of voices that were many and one at the same time:  
they rose, they fell, they sang together, they sang apart, each  
one crying out in agony for its own existence, for the collective  
agonies of all things. Utena heard the death-gasp of a fish, a   
carp stranded on the land beside a pond ringed with stones--the  
wail of a baby, new-born, pulled from the warmth of the womb into  
the cold dread of the vast unfriendly world beyond--heard the   
scream of a murder victim, the sucking, grating sounds of the  
knife plunging into the body--the passionate cries of lovers,  
male and female, as they moved desperately together towards an   
unachievable unity--the bellow of a bull, the cry of a heron, the  
growl of a tiger--the death-rattle of an old man--the joyful  
laughter of small children--the weeping of a widow mourning her   
husband dead--lonely whispers in the dark--voices raised in  
heated argument--tender words of friendship and love--each voice  
becoming, changing, destroying, giving birth to other voices, and  
one voice over them all, one voice beneath them all like the   
background noise of a record, and it was singing its death-cry,  
but it had no mouth with which to sing, and Utena wept in pity  
and terror and awe at its death.

you didn't come.

"What?"

you didn't come to save us. i asked you to come, but you  
didn't. a prince is supposed to come. he's supposed to save   
the maiden in the tower.

i don't understand?

It's not something you need to worry yourself about now.   
Now that I'm awake, I'm going to fix things. I'm going to make  
everything the way it ought to be.

who are you?

"You don't need to worry about that."

but... himemiya... akio-san...

"You don't need to worry about them, either. You just go to  
sleep now."

okay.

* * *

well.

well?

that was an utter disaster of an opening night.

no kidding.

*sigh*

*sigh*

it's funny, how far people will go to make sure  
some stories aren't told.

but not funny ha-ha.

nope.

why are people so scared of stories?

stories are just words.

and words, in the end, mean nothing.

and they mean everything. 

so...

so?

who gets to be a-ko now that a-ko is gone?

me.

what? i want to be a-ko!

i have seniority.

that's not fair!

you can be b-ko.

i don't _like_ b-ko.

too bad, since you're her now.

and c-ko?

hmm... we'll find somebody.

but...

but?

isn't the story over now?

oh, hardly.

but he...

the story will be over when it damn well feels   
like being over.

do you ever worry that maybe we're just  
characters in the story too?

don't be ridiculous.

right. that's silly.

terribly silly.

preposterous.

well... good night.

good night.

see you, in the winter.

in the winter, then.

end of eclipse

End of Jaquemart - Part XII


End file.
